


In Your Arms

by Ludwiggle73



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Implied Sexual Content, Infidelity, Multi, Secret Relationship, Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-30
Updated: 2018-08-30
Packaged: 2019-07-04 15:10:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15843852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ludwiggle73/pseuds/Ludwiggle73
Summary: Prussia suspects England and Hungary are up to something naughty, so he resolves to find out the truth.[Suspicious EngHun.]





	In Your Arms

Something was going on.

The glances during meetings. The smiles in the halls. And England thought he was a good spy. Ha! He couldn’t have been less covert if he tried. It was just so obvious, Prussia had no choice but to notice when England and Hungary just _happened_ to be the last ones out of the conference room, or how Hungary’s phone would so often be texted by a +44 number. Clearly, something was going on.

So why the hell did nobody else seem to care?

He went to France first. Of course he did—how could he keep his observations a secret when they were the actions of his best friend’s long-time lover and companion? He didn’t go straight for the accusation, because he knew how France got when big drama rose. Better to come in slowly: “Have you noticed England and Hungary acting really friendly lately?”

France nodded, swirling his wine. “Oui. They are friends. We all are, now, aren’t we?”

Prussia raised an eyebrow. “Come on. This is different than polite diplomacy. He actually smiles at her, how many nations does he smile at?”

France counted to three on his fingers and considered a fourth before dropping his hand entirely. “I’m not worried about it, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Prussia had nothing against polyamory, but he didn’t think all nations shared the view. “Have you talked to Austria about it?”

A bemused chuckle, cloaking uncertainty. “Of course not. What would we say?”

Prussia’s brow furrowed. “Oh, I don’t know. How awesome I am.”

“Always a good topic,” France indulged, visibly relaxing.

France thought he was a good spy, too. Prussia didn’t know if he was in on England and Hungary’s secret or not, but he was definitely hiding something. And hiding it from his best friend! Prussia actually felt hurt.

So he went to Austria. Closer than France in some ways, the old frenemy.

“With England?” He looked up from polishing the smooth wood of his piano. “No, not that I’ve noticed. They’ve left behind past hostilities, as we all have.” He paused, briefly melancholy. “For the most part.”

Prussia stuffed his hands into his pockets. “But it’s strange, for England, don’t you think? Usually, when he’s nice, he wants something from you.”

Austria regarded Prussia thoughtfully. “If anyone can be said to have left behind past hostilities, I would say it’s him. He’s been thoroughly tamed. Once a lion, now a kitten.”

Prussia considered that for a moment. The man who once spilled pirates’ blood for fun now spent his evenings with a cuppa tea and needlework. But how boring he was didn’t change the fact: “I think he and Hungary are _involved_ with each other.”

Austria went still, gaze on the piano keys. His shoulders didn’t stiffen in anger or slump in defeat. He just stood silent as if carefully considering his words, then looked up at Prussia solemnly. “You’re wrong. That is all I will say.”

Somebody here was crazy, and Prussia didn’t think it was him. He went to Hungary, hoping to put an end to this madness. Their bond didn’t run as deep as Hungary and Austria’s, but he considered them to be good friends. She was the best for reminiscing about old battles with. Surely, if she was going to guiltily confess, it would be to the brother in arms?

“It just seems strange,” he said conversationally, “that you and England never seemed to be friends before now.”

Hungary’s brow furrowed, eyes bright with bewilderment. “We’ve always been friends. Well, not always, but we’ve never been sworn enemies. No bad blood between us.”

Prussia watched her closely, searching for a tear in the seams. “What started all this texting and spending time together?”

“We had a meeting at the embassy in London,” she replied, still with the confused look. “Then he offered to take me out to tea. He’s a gentleman, like Austria.”

“So he’s your type,” Prussia remarked.

Hungary’s eyes widened. “Don’t be foolish. Austria is my type. That’s it. England is just a friend. Completely harmless.”

So she wasn’t doing this as a triad relationship. Austria seemed so set against it . . . was there something wrong with him? Or something he couldn’t do for her? Some itch he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, scratch? Prussia didn’t think there was anything England hadn’t tried at least once over the centuries. A gentleman! Until the bedroom door closed, sure.

Prussia couldn’t stand the mystery any longer. He went straight to the source of it all, cornering him in the bathroom at the next world meeting.

England glanced up from washing his hands and jolted, catching sight of Prussia in the mirror, stood just behind him. “Bloody hell, I thought you were a phantom.”

Prussia didn’t feel like getting into that right now. “Since when are you afraid of ghosts?”

England flicked water into the sink, then tore loose three sheets of paper towel. “I’m not. But it’s rather startling to be snuck up on.”

Prussia turned the lock on the bathroom door, then leant back against it. “I’m not the only one sneaking around.”

England eyed him, uneasiness straightening his spine. It was in a cold, warning tone Prussia had not heard since wartime that the small nation said, “Let’s not make a mess.”

Prussia wondered if any larger nation would draw this response from him, or just the ones like Prussia—ones who had been just as liberal with making messes as England had, back in the day.

“Relax,” he said, holding up his hands. “I’m not gonna do anything to you. I just want to talk about something serious. And private.”

England crossed his arms over his chest, waiting. Still tense, on edge, and would be until he returned to the inherent safety betwixt America and Canada.

“I want to know what you’ve been doing with Hungary.”

No response, at first. Then—was that relief? England shook his head shortly. “Nothing.”

“She said you took her for tea.”

England huffed, exasperated. “I’ve taken everyone in this building for tea at one time or another. Including you. There is such a thing called hospitality,” he added dryly. “Perhaps you’ve heard of it.”

Prussia raised an eyebrow. “Ja, but usually it stays separate from infidelity.”

England’s eyes sparked. “How _dare_ you. Hungary would never. You claim to be her friend, and yet you think she would go behind Austria’s back?”

Prussia noted that England’s defense did not extend to himself. Because he was a gentleman, or because he was a slut?

“She told me you two are just friends,” Prussia said, letting his skepticism show.

To his surprise, England perked up a little. “Oh, did she? Say we were—friends?” His gaze drifted, and a slight dreaminess softened his expression. “How kind of her.”

A knock on the door had them both starting. Muffled exuberance: “England, you said we were going to lunch! Let’s go, dude!”

England tipped up his chin. “Are we quite done here? My colony wants me.”

Not something he would get away with saying in front of America, and Prussia considered calling him on it but instead just stepped aside to let him leave. He glimpsed America wrapping an arm around his shoulders—undeniably thin, especially beside America’s—before the door swung shut. It occurred to Prussia that it was always like that, now: America with a protective arm around England, or Canada holding his hand, or France’s hand lingering on the small of his back. Claiming, but lending support, too. When had that started?

Perhaps England was taking ill again; his constitution was infamously poor. Prussia had spooked him, but England was the ghostly one, faded from the mighty Empire he once embodied. Was Hungary doing it out of pity, then? But even if she was, the question still remained: what were they doing?

Prussia intended to find out.

 

* * *

 

It took some time—he couldn’t appear too suspicious all the time, or the jig would be up—but he eventually figured out through America and Italy that both England and Hungary were busy one evening. Hungary was away, from both her home and Austria’s. So Prussia headed for London.

He arrived at the terrace just as they were leaving; he had to duck behind the cab so they didn’t notice his hair. He tried the front door. Unlocked. Trusting of the neighbors? Unlikely. England just didn’t own anything that a robber would consider valuable.

In Prussia went. As he took in the paintings and antiques, he wondered if this was reaching the level of unhealthy obsession. _No._ He would only care about this as gossip, if it were other nations. But it was his friends, and, even if none of them seemed hurt or even bothered by it, it was going to drive him crazy if he didn’t find out the truth. So he stepped into a cramped closet full of suits and vests that wouldn’t fit him, and he waited.

Nearly an hour, they were gone for. Long enough that Prussia climbed out of the closet to inspect under England’s bed (dust bunnies and a forgotten pair of slippers) and in the cabinet beneath his bedside table (a box of tissues, several condom packages, and the prerequisite bottle of lube). The bureau, however, was where Prussia hit the jackpot. In the bottom drawer, beneath a convincingly thick layer of folded sweaters, was a treasure trove of toys. Prussia counted no less than a dozen different dildos, and then there were the beads, rings, rope. A few gags, blindfolds, a pair of cuffs. _Holy shit._  France had mentioned England having _some things_ , but not a whole sex shop in his dresser drawer. Prussia wondered if he was going to witness some kink of England’s tonight. Maybe being pegged by Hungary was more exciting than the regular with France?

Noises. Was that talking? The door opening, closing. They were back. Prussia swiftly closed the drawer, returned to his hiding place, and left the door just ajar enough to observe.

Muffled conversation, through the small house. As they came into the bedroom, England was saying, “. . . thank you, since it’s short notice.”

“No trouble at all,” Hungary assured him, smiling. “It’s my pleasure.”

Prussia’s eyes narrowed.

England stood near the bed, watching Hungary climb on. No clothes were removed yet. England crossed to the dresser, but instead of the bottom drawer, he opened the top. From beneath countless pairs of argyle socks, he pulled a piece of material so tattered it looked more like a potato sack than a blanket, but a blanket was the reality. England held it with peculiar reverence, as did Hungary when she accepted it. With practised ease, she maneuvered the blanket onto her lap, then gently patted it. In a shocking gentle, oddly lilting voice, she said, “Come here, England.”

England crawled onto the bed and—again, with ease—Hungary pulled him close, wrapping the blanket around him. The tattered thing wasn’t big enough to cover more than his upper half, but he didn’t seem to mind. He curled up with his legs tucked in close off to the side and the rest of him on Hungary’s lap, his head nestled between her breasts. One of her hands held his back, the other lightly stroked his hair. She murmured something to him, and he replied in a voice so thin and tiny Prussia barely heard it. It took him a few more exchanged sentences to figure it out.

They were speaking Old English.

And England was calling her _Mōdor_.

It continued, much like that, for an hour. They went back and forth quietly in a language no one knew anymore. Eventually, England closed his eyes and fell asleep. All the while, Hungary stroked his hair, and held him close. It was a display so deeply maternal that all the loud things in Prussia were hushed, awed by how blessed the female nations were to have the bodies of mothers. Brotherhood was the best the men could hope for, but—to be held by a mother again . . . Prussia found himself blinking back tears.

Soon England roused of his own accord, for it was still early evening. Hungary let him take his time waking up, leaving the subspace of the child, the son. He rose slowly, carefully folded the blanket and returned it to its drawer, then offered a hand. Hungary took it, let him help her to her feet. “Thank you, England,” she said, voice still gentle. “I hope it helped. Let me know if the nightmares come back.”

“It did,” he replied immediately. “And I will.” He paused, then lifted her hand to press a chaste kiss to the back of it. “Thank you, Miss Hungary.”

She smiled fondly, but with a hint of sorrow in her eyes, and patted his shoulder. “You’re quite welcome, édesem.”

Prussia hadn’t heard that endearment out of her since Italy was a child. He watched them leave the room, then abandoned his hiding place and snuck out the back door, through the garden. He tore his shirt climbing over the fence, but that was his own stupid fault.

To Hungary, Austria, and France, he sent a text that said only: _I understand._

And to England, he sent a bouquet of roses and bluebells on Mother’s Day. He knew England would blame it on America—and question why the note bore only a single-worded apology—but that was alright.

It was better than nothing.

 

 

 

_The End._


End file.
